


Dry Bones

by Novachester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hell, Horror, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mutilation, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:44:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Novachester/pseuds/Novachester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blatant hell/torture!fic with Dean and his buddy Alastair down in the pit. Explores a bit of their relationship and how Alastair broke down the righteous man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dry Bones

“Y'know, I _really_ can't understand why you're being so stubborn about this,” Alastair muses, sifting through the contents of Dean's stomach. It's mostly hot coals, but there are bits of shrapnel in there, too, cutting the lining. Dean's not bleeding because Alastair slit his throat and strung him up for an hour prior, and his heart won't beat until it's been given permission. The precious organ has only one master down below, and it isn't Dean. “One little word, one little drop of blood, and it's all over.”

Dean's screams don't answer much of anything, but they're sweet to listen to. He'll miss them when Dean caves, but perhaps the boy will grow the same kind of appreciation for pain that Alastair has. Maybe one day, he'll lay _himself_ down on Alastair's table. 

He only hopes Dean never stops trying to bite through his tongue whenever it winds up in his young protege’s mouth.

Alastair sighs wistfully, withdrawing his hands. He wipes them absently on his pants before he picks up a scalpel from the table, turning his attentions towards Dean's outstretched hand, pinned by nothing but the laws of Hell. He begins working the blade into the joint of Dean's thumb, severing muscle and artery. 

Dry is much easier to work with, however much Alastair enjoys the blood, and the constriction of Dean's veins provides a delicious kind of agony.

“I mean, what've you got to lose?” Alastair asks, twisting Dean's thumb to break the last of the tendons keeping it connected. Dean's trembling body jerks, free from any annoying pain numbers like shock. He sets the thumb delicately upon a separate table. “Little brother hates you. Who can blame him? You did rip him directly out of his own little paradise.”

Alastair's blade slides easily into the webbing of Dean's middle and index finger, a sharp turn severing more muscle. He pats Dean's chest as the boy writhes, choking on his own sobs. He takes his time with each and every finger after that, making sure his cuts are clean and even. It's not really necessary, a task he could do in his sleep, but he always pays special attention to Dean.

Such a _good_ little boy he is.

“Selfish, selfish, selfish,” he tsks, setting Dean's pinky aside. He walks around the crucifix-shaped table and starts on Dean's other hand. “Couldn't live with him dead. Couldn't let him leave you in your own stew of misery. Just _had_ \--” Dean's screaming tears up the lining of his renewed throat all over as Alastair drives the knife through his hand before turning it red hot. In Hell, heat doesn't cauterize a wound. It just burns. “--to drag him back down.”

Dean begs with every fiber of himself for it to stop, for Alastair to stop, the litany of only half-coherent pleas falling thoughtlessly from his lips. He becomes most responsive when Alastair talks of Sam. Images of his brother make the wounds feel deeper, turn the air hotter. Words are just as much a weapon as any other instrument in Alastair's arsenal.

He will never show Sam to him, though. It wouldn't be Hell if Dean got what he wanted most, no matter how warped it was.

The blade is slowly withdrawn. Alastair licks away what little bits of flesh and muscle clung to the heat of it, closing his eyes in delight as it sears his tongue. “And now he's all alone. No place for a soul plucked by a demon, kiddo,” he says, dismantling Dean's hand. There's a special place on his table for each bone, every fragment of Dean that –after, what, fifteen years?-- Alastair knows intimately.

He chews the meat from his favourites before he puts them down.

Alastair hums as he pulls apart Dean's arm. When he begins to suspect Dean is growing accustomed to the slide of his knife, he changes tactics. Burning oil trickles from his fingers, sizzling as it dances over Dean's chest. Alastair uses him as a child with finger paints uses a sheet of paper, scorching elegant designs into his skin with each swipe of his hand. The flesh melts deliciously, softening under the pads of Alastairs fingers until it caves in, allowing the oil to spill into Dean's innards.

Dean is gorgeous like this, in pieces and laid bare.

“Pay attention, Dean,” Alastair chides despite himself, shaking his hand free of the oil so that he can fetch his knife. Dean has his eyes clamped shut, his lips parted in a silent scream. His voice is gone, and Alastair doubts there's much left of his throat. “This is all gonna be on the test.” With that, Alastair slices away Dean's eyelids.

Alastair's smile is proud when their eyes meet. There's so much in Dean's eyes that one would expect to be there-- agony, misery, pleas. The demon is numb to all of it, would find it unimpressive, if not for the unrestrained _anger_ that burned alongside it. Humans always lose that passion so quickly, falling into a pit where nothing of them remains but their own agony and the desire for it to just end.

But Dean is special.

Dean would spit in Alastair's face if there were any saliva or blood in his mouth. He begs for it to stop, but not so that he can breathe. So that he can _destroy._

“Beautiful,” Alastair murmurs appreciatively. He kisses Dean's cheek, and oh, _yes._ That draws a reaction more violent than any scalpel ever could.

“Oh, right,” he chuckles, putting his hand on Dean's hip. His thumb strokes affectionately over the quivering flesh. “Where were we?”

He begins to sing as he works.

_“The arm bone connected to the shoulder bone,_  
 _The shoulder bone connected to the collarbone,_  
 _The collarbone connected to the neck bone,_  
 _It's easy to disconnect these dry bones.”_


End file.
